68: Chapter 6 The Secrets of the River Bend

For an entire week, Backlund had been shrouded in an unchanging, gloomy gray fog.

The gas streetlamps in the East Borough pierced through the hazy night, casting spheres of dim, yellowish light, while the damp, fishy scent drifting from the Hoi River grew heavier day by day, permeating the entire Dock District.

Lu Li's daily routine had long been set.

Every evening, he would head to Water Pump Street to collect the latest intelligence on the underground market from Abraham; once twilight had completely fallen, he would detour to River Bay District to continue monitoring the abandoned warehouse rented by the Aurora Order.

The warehouse stood at the southernmost tip of River Bay District, right against the Old Wharf of the Hoi River; it was an old, two-story brick and timber building. Its walls were covered in withered ivy, and all its windows had been sealed from the inside with sheet metal, leaving no gaps for light.

During the day, it was indistinguishable from the dozen or so other abandoned warehouses nearby—silent, dilapidated, and ignored by all.

But once night fell, hidden anomalies would quietly emerge.

From the gaps in the sheet metal on the second floor, a faint, dark red glow would seep out, brightening and dimming every few seconds in a steady, rhythmic pattern that perfectly matched the heartbeat of a resting human.

That was the lingering, weak spiritual aftermath of the blood altar that had not yet been fully activated.

Lu Li, hiding behind a window on the second floor of an abandoned apartment building across from the warehouse, affixed an Apprentice Pathway spatial perception rune to the window frame.

A pale blue spiritual light flashed and vanished, and the spatial veins and spiritual distribution within a radius of several dozen meters unfolded within his perception, clear and distinguishable.

The first floor of the warehouse was stacked with solid wooden crates, their surfaces stamped with the exclusive emblem of the Storm Cape port; there were as many as twenty or thirty of them.

The second floor had been completely converted into a fully standardized ritual site. A precise twelve-pointed star array was engraved on the floor, its pattern construction completely originating from the same source as the backup rune in the drainage branch pipe of Iron Cross Street.

The copper censer in the center of the array burned quietly with an exotic incense, its sweet, cloying, and sinister scent identical to the one he had smelled during the lighthouse blood sacrifice pulse earlier.

Five Beyonder figures stood around the array.

Two of them were methodically arranging ritual items with practiced movements; the remaining three retreated to the corner, heads bowed as they carefully polished the short daggers in their hands. The Antigonus Family snake-shaped patterns engraved on the blades glinted with a subtle, cold light in the dimness.

Five low-Sequence Beyonders, and one blood altar being steadily constructed.

No high-level spiritual fluctuations of Sequence 5 or above were detected throughout the entire process.

Lu Li quickly clarified the situation: the main force of the Aurora Order was still lingering on the black-sailed giant ship at Storm Cape, and this River Bay District warehouse was merely a secret forward base they had established in the Backlund urban area.

However, based on the progress of the array's completion, the other party would be able to finish all preparations and activate the blood sacrifice ritual no later than the night of the full moon.

After returning to his rented apartment, Lu Li took out a pencil and meticulously sketched the internal layout of the warehouse, the position of the array, and the distribution of personnel in his notebook, recording all key information one by one.

Meanwhile, undercurrents were surging in the underground market.

Abraham sent word that a few strangers with authentic Storm Cape accents had recently flooded into the market. They visited every shop specializing in fourth epoch literature replicas, not asking about the quality of the goods or discussing prices, but from beginning to end, they only asked one question—whether the shopkeeper had seen a silver snake-shaped pendant.

The wind was picking up, and crisis was lurking in the shadows. Old Kohler had long sensed something amiss and had quietly reinforced the spiritual seal on the locker in the back alley. The original single-layer protective rune had been stacked by him to three layers, strictly preventing the leakage of the token and secret intelligence.

Day after day, Lu Li continued to repeat the rhythm of monitoring and cultivation. After purchasing the spatial rune fragments, he would head to River Bay District to stake out and investigate;

When passing by the bakery in the East Borough, he would always buy an extra loaf of black bread, wrap it carefully in old newspaper, and quietly leave it at the door of Warehouse No. 4, where Old Kohler stayed year-round, leaving a trace of unknown warmth in this cold, dilapidated district of the underclass.

One evening, a few days later, Lu Li went to Water Pump Street as usual to purchase supplies.

Abraham did not hand over any rune fragments as usual, but instead took a delicately folded paper crane from the depths of the drawer and placed it gently on the table.

The paper crane's eyes were dotted with the snake emblem, and the inside of its wings was also printed with the same pattern, bearing the secret mark of the Antigonus Family.

"A messenger arrived this morning," Abraham whispered. "The paper crane comes with an exclusive spiritual message. Only those holding the snake emblem token can activate it with their own spirituality to read the content."

Lu Li took out the snake-shaped pendant he kept close to him and pressed it against the emblem on the paper crane's wings.

A faint light suddenly shone, and a line of delicate Hermes script slowly emerged: [Three days before the full moon, Berth 3 of the Hoi River Old Wharf, those holding the token may board the ship. Destination—Antigonus Ruins.]

The handwriting lingered briefly, then dissipated like smoke after a few seconds.

Lu Li flipped the paper crane over and saw another line of even smaller, almost imperceptible text on the back: [The fare is a piece of memory. It is recommended to choose a past event unrelated to Beyonder matters.]

He stared at this line for a long time, his mind already clear.

The other party knew of his identity as a transmigrator and knew that he possessed complete memories of another world.

The intent of this advice was obvious—use mundane memories from Earth to pay the fare, and never use core memories related to this life, Beyonder matters, fate, or cultivation.

Abraham tapped the paper crane with his fingertip, his tone grave as he warned, "The ghost ship in the Sea of Wraith is by no means an ordinary vessel. The captain will forcibly intercept a passenger's most cherished memory as payment. After boarding, countless people forget their original intentions, and can't even remember the reason they rushed into danger."

Lu Li tucked the paper crane away securely, already having made a decision.

Most of the mundane memories from his previous life were insignificant and could absolutely be used as the fare.

For instance, the embarrassing past of losing a dozen consecutive games in his college dormitory was worthless to him; if the captain wasn't picky, it could just be used to pay the price, preserving all key memories of this life.

After leaving Water Pump Street, he did not return to his apartment immediately, but instead walked slowly westward along the banks of the Hoi River.

Noisy voices drifted from the taverns in the Dock District; the rough laughter of porters and the crisp clinking of glasses intertwined. Someone was humming an absurd Sailor legend in an off-key Loen folk song—a Sailor whose ship capsized at Storm Cape, only to encounter a mermaid by fate and forge an absurd marriage.

Lu Li paused at the entrance of a tavern, put down three pence, and ordered a glass of the cheapest ale.

The bartender was an old, one-armed Sailor over fifty. As he handed over the glass, he sighed casually, "It's excessively quiet tonight. Usually at this hour, the card players and drinkers would fill at least a few tables, but today, even the gambling tables haven't been set up."

"Where did everyone go?" Lu Li asked softly.

"Who can say." The old bartender wiped the bar counter casually and lowered his voice, "Recently, quite a few familiar faces have gone missing in the Dock District, all single laborers who lived alone with no attachments. Some say they went to the new port to make a living, but more people have simply disappeared into thin air."

He looked up at Lu Li, tentatively asking, "Are you a Nighthawk?"

"No." Lu Li took a sip of the sour ale, his tone flat. "Just arrived in Backlund, just curious."

"Then it's best to ask less." The bartender retracted his gaze and said no more. "If you ask too much about the affairs of the East Borough and the Dock District, it's easy to bring trouble upon yourself."

Lu Li finished the remaining ale in his glass and turned to walk out of the tavern.

He already knew the fate of those missing persons.

The Aurora Order's blood altar required a large amount of fresh human blood as a sacrifice. The lonely, bottom-tier residents of the East Borough and Dock District, who had no family and no fixed abode, were the perfect, most unaccountable prey.

No one reported the cases, no one investigated, and the police station was too lazy to even record the missing persons reports, providing the most hidden hotbed for the Aurora Order's ritual.

The next evening, Lu Li staked out River Bay District as usual and soon noticed a new variable.

A strange man had appeared at the alley entrance of the abandoned warehouse.

The man was dressed in a crisp, dark blue wool coat, and a faint, silver holy emblem was visible at his collar—not the sacred badge of the Nighthawks, but the insignia of the Mandated Punishers belonging to the Church of Storms.

The man stood quietly at the alley entrance, raising his eyes to look at the dark red glow pulsing between the gaps in the second-floor window, then took out a portable compass and carefully surveyed the direction of the warehouse for a while.

After confirming the anomaly, he quickly put away the instrument, turned, and walked away rapidly, his steps steady and urgent.

Lu Li lurked in the shadows, never moving.

He could clearly see that the direction this Mandated Punisher was heading was not the church outpost in River Bay District, but the center of Backlund.

The Church of Storms had already discovered the Aurora Order's secret base but had not launched an immediate raid, choosing instead to relay the intelligence and wait for high-level support.

However, the Church's hierarchy was cumbersome and the procedures long-winded; the time left for the Aurora Order was already enough for them to completely finish stacking and laying out the blood sacrifice array.

Back at the apartment, Lu Li recorded the day's events in detail in his notebook, then turned to the ability training log page for Sequence 7: Swindler, updating the latest progress.

These few days of continuous staking out had become his best practical training.

Relying on the Swindler's information perception ability, he could accurately capture the spiritual fluctuations of the five believers inside the warehouse from across the district, and even distinguish their respective emotional states.

The two working beside the array had stable spirituality and calm minds, clearly experienced core believers; the three in the corner polishing daggers had violently fluctuating emotions, at times excited and restless, at times tense and uneasy, likely newcomers just transferred from Storm Cape.

Currently, his potion digestion progress for Swindler was less than 10%, but the path ahead was already clear.

The upcoming blood altar ritual, the ghost ship in the Sea of Wraith, and the trip to the Antigonus Ruins were all filled with information gambits, disguises, deceptions, and mental confrontations, which perfectly suited the training needs of a Swindler.

In the vast and turbulent Backlund, there were plenty of opportunities for him to refine his abilities and digest his potion.

Closing the log, Lu Li took out the two remaining spatial rune fragments from his pouch, settled his mind, and continued to hone his Apprentice Pathway spatial Lock Picking skills.

...

At the same moment, Backlund Central Station.

The roaring steam train slowly pulled into the platform, its billowing coal smoke torn apart by the cold wind beneath the lead-gray sky, turning into a sky full of fine black mist that shrouded the entire platform.

A young man wearing a dark gray long trench coat and carrying an old leather suitcase stepped down from a second-class carriage.

He looked up at the haze that never dissipated in Backlund all year round, lowered the brim of his hat slightly, blended into the crowd, and quietly stepped into the noisy waiting hall.

Klein Moretti of Tingen City had long died in that bizarre turmoil that swept through the entire city.

Walking through the Fog City was the brand-new Sherlock Moriarty, a private detective who had traveled far to the Capital of Capitals to make a living.

He had already set his plan: rent an apartment on Mingde Street, hang up a sign to open a detective agency, lurk and lie low, and wait for an opportunity to track down the trail of Ince Zangwill to settle his old blood feud.

The moment he stepped out of the station square, his keen spirituality suddenly trembled.

A trace of extremely weak, yet incomparably familiar, homologous spiritual fluctuation pierced through the spiritual noise of the bustling city and clearly entered his perception.

The source of the fluctuation pointed directly to the East Borough.

It came from the same source as the trace of aura he had captured when he was stranded at the Tingen station back then.

That mysterious, homologous existence had already arrived in Backlund.

Klein paused for a moment, closed his eyes to quietly trace the source, then opened them, his expression calm.

He did not seek out the trail or investigate rashly; he simply lowered his hat brim again, picked up his suitcase, and walked steadily in the direction of Mingde Street, blending into the heavy twilight of the Fog City.

Two days later, Sherlock Moriarty officially moved into the first-floor apartment at No. 15 Mingde Street.

The landlady was a garrulous but kind-hearted widow; seeing him pay the full month's rent in cash at once, a satisfied smile immediately appeared on her face.

The apartment came with a small reception room, the layout was just right, and with a little tidying up, it could be converted into a detective office.

After simply adding a desk, a two-seater, and a filing cabinet, a brand-new copper sign was hung outside the door.

The sign's lettering was neat: [Sherlock Moriarty, Private Detective. Undertaking missing persons, case investigations, security consultations].

Whether it was the missing persons files in the Nighthawks' archives or the abnormal disappearance cases he had handled during the Tingen period, they made him easily capable of the work of a private detective.

On the third day after the sign was hung, the first client came to the door.

The visitor was a middle-aged woman living on the edge of the East Borough, struggling to make a living. Her neighbor was a homeless man living alone who worked odd jobs at the docks year-round. He had gone out to work a few days ago and had been missing without a trace ever since.

The landlord only found an empty wine bottle and a completely torn-up ship ticket in that man's room.

The woman had once gone to the police station to report the case, but when they heard the missing person was a homeless man with no one to rely on, they simply shelved the case file and ignored it. With no other options, she saw the detective's sign on the street and came to seek help, holding onto a last shred of hope.

Sherlock accepted the commission and immediately set off for the East Borough to investigate.

He questioned the dock porters, second-hand market vendors, and surrounding tavern workers one by one. All the scattered clues eventually pointed to the same location—the Old Wharf of River Bay District, that abandoned warehouse whose walls were covered in withered ivy.

Night shrouded the wharf, and the fog grew thicker.

Sherlock stepped alone into the silent, deserted River Bay District, his gaze locked onto the abandoned apartment building with shattered glass across from the warehouse.

He pushed open the door and walked slowly up the dusty stairs. Halfway up, his footsteps suddenly stopped.

On the accumulated dust at the corner of the stairs, there were a few fresh prints of work boots.

The shoe prints had a common pattern, but the steps were extremely light and the center of gravity was extremely stable, clearly traces left by someone who had been lurking and staking out for a long time. The surface of the dust was smooth and undisturbed, enough to prove that the owner had left only moments ago.

Sherlock leaned down slightly, his fingertips lightly touching the edge of the shoe print, a flash of realization passing through his eyes.

He straightened up and continued upstairs, soon picking up a rune fragment that had exhausted its spirituality in the corner of the second-floor window sill.

The spiritual veins inside the fragment had already gone silent, but the edges were engraved with fine, neat Hermes script, the standardized brushwork highly similar to the custom marks of the Tingen Nighthawks' Potion Room.

Flipping the fragment over, a line of tiny text was engraved on the back: Water Pump Street Old Bookstore.

Sherlock tucked the fragment securely into his pocket and looked up at the abandoned warehouse across the way.

The dark red glow between the gaps in the sheet metal windows was brightening and dimming in rhythm with a heartbeat, flickering ceaselessly in the heavy night fog, sinister and unending.

He stood silently for a moment, pulled up the collar of his trench coat to block the night wind, turned, and walked away, quietly leaving this Old Wharf where undercurrents were surging.